


Tiny Bouquet Made of Dandelion Dreams

by bubbiegirll



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, flower shop owner george, george is fluent in french
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 02:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbiegirll/pseuds/bubbiegirll
Summary: George admired flowers. He admired that they didn’t turn rotten to the core, so when he finally got the chance to open up his own flower shop, he took it, though he wasn’t expecting to meet someone quite so captivating along the way
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Tiny Bouquet Made of Dandelion Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This idea stemmed from late night/early morning conversations with a good friend of mine [Mashed_Potatoes42] — This chapter was actually edited by them so go give them some love :)

George admired flowers. He admired that they didn’t turn rotten to the core — successfully keeping their candied aroma until the last petal hit the ground — only ever painting themselves in new pigments. A dying flower was similar to Autumn; petals and stems waving their colours farewell, like leaves when they singed themselves in red and orange embers. Beauty, an ever eternal grace even in the dimming pigments of vibrant petals and lush green leaves.

Since youth — helping his mother out in the garden had been routine; planting various flora — had set his obsession for flowers. He loved what they stood for; their significance, and how some would give the people, whomst they loved the most, a beautiful bouquet that spoke as loud as their love for them. At times, he would skip out into the garden just to hand his mother a flower; offering her an affectionate smile as she took it with her own blinding smile, whispering warmly into the crisp air.

“Thank you.” 

Before a stamp of her love touched his forehead.

He cherished the blissful looks of those who graciously accepted flowers; how a gift from nature could brighten their day — ruptured hearts mended with a petal — he dreamed to be someone who could do that; make people happy. So, he set out from a young age that a flower shop was what he wanted to walk into everyday.

It had been a struggle; at times believing that this was an aspiration that he would never have the privilege to achieve, but he never gave in instead pushing through; spending hours drinking in knowledge, grabbing a sword to ram at anything that blocked his ambition, until at last, he was looking at it, his flower shop: Empyrean’s Flower Bed.

Tingles of euphoria, found a home within his bones — as he stood in front of his flower shop — was enough to blur his vision; tears spilling down his face, as his lips creeped up into a smile: he’d done it, he had actually done it.

His mother had been there next to him, when he first unlocked the door to his brand new establishment, speaking with warm, soft praise: “I’m so proud of you. my darling boy, look at how far you’ve come” — pulling her into a warm embrace as unspoken: “Thank you’s” lingered in the air between them.

It was almost instantly that he started work on the shop; buying different decor and miscellaneous items to string about. The installation of the floorboards — oak ones at that — was a much more tedious process than what he had anticipated, but it had most certainly been worth it; the rustic look they gave off, rose contentment within George. Wooden crates and pallets were strewn about; invisoning them being adorned with joyful flora and plants. His mum had helped him with the installation of a small reading corner, hid in seclusion behind large bookshelves and obscure greenery.

Lanterns and fairy lights were later strung about and George couldn’t of have more jubilant with the result, it was perfect; just how he had envisioned it — especially after lining foliage along the windows— and when his mum had handed down her vintage watering can, everything just fell into place; he was living in his dream now; feeling complete.

When April rolled around, he finally opened up shop and was ecstatic that he was able to start selling flowers— an array of daffodils, tulips and muscari were on display; accompanied by small alumroot in pots.

Spring was George’s preferred season, for the soul reason that his favourite flower — Azaleas — bloomed in it. He adored Azaleas, not only because of their delightful odor of sweet and spicy clove, but because of their language: Love and gentleness. Their representation of family and abundance — whether that be in beauty or intelligence — intrigued him, and the fact that they bloomed in so many different colours — despite himself only being able to see a selected few of them.

He despised not being able to see every colour under the rainbow; meddling with his passion of all things floral. At times he struggled with putting bouquets together, but over time, learnt how to work cohesively with it, allowing him to create unique combinations that flower shops in the near area lacked.

People would compliment him on his peculiarity, when regarding flowers, unaware of the fact that he was colourblind, nonetheless bliss poured over him— at hearing people appreciate something that he once used to loathe. His mother would often soothe his thoughts, when distraught over being colour blind; being different from everyone else, kindly and with a warm tone: “You’ll learn to cherish it one day, my boy”. 

He cherished it now, he smiled at the fact that he wasn’t like most, and instead of weeping about it, he took advantage of his eyes to create beautiful and idiosyncratic things.

Business wasn't necessarily ‘booming’, seeing as he hadn’t been open for long; only the occasional customer every now and then would stroll in, it didn’t affect his demeanour, instead he found serenity in the idle atmosphere that the shop produced— gentle music and elegant plant life — besides, he understood that a few days or weeks wouldn’t suffice such a business growth spurt to happen, but he was keeping an eye open for the feeling of accomplishment. 

While waiting for customers, George managed to find solace in the literary corner his mother had helped him install; bookshelves adorned with, not only classic literature, but also modern. Whenever he sat in that secluded area, he grabbed the same book, time and time, again: The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh.

He was unsure why he was drawn to that book, but for some reason, he just was. Maybe it was the dynamic between Van Gogh and his brother, or maybe it was how he [Van Gogh] changed throughout the years — going through different stages and styles; how his preferences in artists and writers changed over the years — no matter what it was, it still managed to entice him to no end. And he’d be marked a liar for saying he didn’t love the book.

Whilst in the middle of reading one of Van Gogh’s letters, the bell above the door rang, signaling that someone had entered the shop. Saving his page by curling the corner, he walked out into the open with a friendly smile.

A man, standing around 6 feet tall, walked around aimlessly, scanning the flowers that George himself had gone through the effort to grow; putting them out on display for everyone to see. He had shaggy, dirty blond hair, tattoos covering his arms and an awkward posture; looking seemingly out of place as he glanced about.

“Hello, need any help?” George queried to the stranger, in hopes of putting them out of their misery. 

“Oh, hi” The man started, turning around quickly to face George, taken by surprise at the sudden break of silence. “Um, i’m after a bouquet for my mum”

George nodded his head, “And what sort of bouquet were you after?”

“Something that holds her favourite flower and is yet captivating” The blond spoke, picking at the skin around his nail. 

“I think I can pull something together” A small pot that grew Baby’s Breaths, began to seem quite interesting to George, “May I ask what her favourite flower is?”

Clearing his throat, the man said “Coreopsis– I know they’re more of a Summer flower but, you wouldn’t happen to have some, would you?”

“We may do. Any colour in particular or-?”

“Any is fine, you’re the expert after all, so I trust your judgment.” The auricomous man stated, flashing George a warm smile.

George felt a warmth spread across his face and decided on nodding his head instead of saying anything, before getting to work. 

A pot of what appears to be pink Coreopsis is soon in his hands along with the pot Baby’s Breath and all too soon some dazzling lavenders are also joining in. With deft hands and fingers he maps the bouquet before typing it all together with a pleasant bow made of jute.

The bouquet was as beautiful as it was eccentric, these flowers often never met each other. So for him to even pull them together into a cohesive piece— had been a rarity in itself. The way their languages spoke in tangent gave him bliss: Love, purity, cheerfulness and innocence — was at the most a wonderful fusion.

Presenting the man his creation, had allowed him to bask in their radiant smile; bright pearly whites and crows feet by his eyes. The infectiousness behind it made George smile back, and he wanted nothing more than to bottle up the moment to save it for later; drink in the warmth.

“It’s perfect, thank you so much!” Subtle red cheeks and warmth upon his face — so much warmth that he swore he was out in the sun.

“You’re welcome,” they share a smile, “Do you want me to throw a card in there too?”

Shaking his head, the blond grinned “It’s quite alright, thank you though”

“Of course, i hope your mum likes the flowers,” gentle tones shared between the two.

Small, appreciative nods, “I’m sure she will. You did an amazing job; it’s beautiful. How much is it?”

“About twenty-five dollars.”

“What if I gave you a fifty dollar note and told you to keep the change?” voice thick with honey; warmth dripped from his teeth as he spoke.

“Uh—um, well, I— um” Stuttering seemed to be the only thing George could do, as he struggled to form a single sentence; face warm to the touch, a tiny bit of dirt on the ground grew increasingly interesting.

The man looked down at George; smugness etched onto his face, “just take the fifty, darling, merci, douce poitrine.”

George stood there stunned as the man slipped a fifty into his hand. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, it was as though he were frozen. The only possible thing that could have brought back was the man’s poor attempt at French, his misspoken words in an attempt to flirt with him had succeeded. His flushed face and flustered heart were the testimonies after all.

George could only thank the man in his head, as he put the money away, chuckling to himself he thought of the butchered French the man spoke in: ‘Thank you, sweet chest.’

**Author's Note:**

> Narcissus — also know as daffodils — is the name of a Greek Mythological hunter, whom was known for their beauty. Having been so narcissistic, he rejected all those whom proclaimed their love for him as he fell in love with his own reflection after looking at it in a pool of water. Once he died, a flower sprouted in his final resting place place.


End file.
